Draw Your Swords
by lacera
Summary: and for a split second, as her heart falters and her breath catches, she thinks that it's true, it's goddamn true – looks do kill.
1. Chapter 1

Summary: Where the battle isn't only in the war, but her own mind as well.

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE.**

It started in the midst of war.

When everything else was loss after loss after goddamn loss, she found this. But it wasn't something found, she would say. No. It was a loss. She would attribute it as a loss. And she thinks, it was the last thing she lost. After hope, and after courage, and after love, she lost it last. Because without all the rest, she couldn't have her mentality too. Something she prided herself on for eighteen years, what she had been known for, she had finally lost it too.

You never kept anything during the war.

It took, and took, and took, until you were barren. Bare-skinned barren. And then it would take some more, just to be safe. And she found this out the hard way. After watching Harry, after watching Ron, after watching the detriment of all these beautiful, beautiful minds, she thought she wouldn't go too. She wouldn't let it. But she had never been so wrong in her life. She had never disregarded something for so long. Hermione, the brightest witch of her age.

She lost it, just like war said she would.

–

It is quiet. It has been quiet for a week or two now. During the war, a week or two could be a month or two, or just a day or two. For Hermione, this week or two has been a month or two. They were going nowhere with plans after plans, after futile plans. There were frustrations and there were broken plates in the safe-house as Harry was constantly up, burdened by a scar taunting him, just by being idle. Hermione guesses he keeps waiting for the pain that used to grace him so regularly before, but never comes now. More than once, Ginny's had to calm him down, soothe him to sleep, so to not alarm the already alarmed.

It was not uncommon now for Remus and Tonks, who had been so in love at Bill and Fleur's wedding, to be in hushed quarrels. ("Of course I want him, this just isn't the best environment!" "He's going to be our child, regardless of environment!" "But what about me? What if he turns out like me?") People minded their own business, any disputes were better off forgotten. With each passing day, Hermione could hardly tell them apart anymore. They were all the same. Harry yelling out frustrations, Ginny soothing him, Remus and Tonks in their quarrels, Hermione in her room, Hermione in her room, Hermione in her room.

She couldn't stand the noise anymore. She couldn't stand the ashen looks on all of their faces, how drained they were. She couldn't stand any of it anymore. So she stayed inside her room, muted screams seeping through the wooden walls. Ron often knocking, calling her for food. Sometimes she could move her arms, to throw the scratchy blankets off of her thinning frame, and to shuffle into the dining room, only to move beans around on her plate. But more often than not, her arms were dead weights, and she would watch the shadow from beneath the door wait for twenty beats of the heart, no more, no less, before dispersing, letting the hallway light flood in again.

Ron, Ron, Ron. It was over between them before it even started. He would be found in the lounge, playing chess on his own now. Sometimes with Neville. Always, no less than five games a day. Always, no less than five wins a day. Sometimes Hermione would watch him. And when his queen would swing her staff to shatter a pawn, Hermione would smile, and Ron would smile back. The twitch of lips were enough to warrant a smile now. Anything more than that would be a rarity, a gift. And after a win, Hermione would claim fatigue, then retreat back to her room for the night, unseen until the next afternoon.

It is the same as the ten days before, Hermione in her room, Ron playing chess with Neville, when the front door opens, likely Remus coming back from meetings, from the grocery store, Hermione doesn't keep track anymore. She's heading to the kitchen, looking for leftovers after everybody's already eaten, maybe an apple, if they're lucky enough to have some. She glances towards Remus, offering a small smile.

"Do we have any appl–?" she begins, but something catches the corner of her eye and she has to do a double take.

From behind Remus is blond hair, black slacks, angular face. He's there in the flesh, and Hermione can't help but stare. She hasn't given him a thought since all of this started. She thinks she may be hallucinating, that he's a ghost, but he looks as real as Remus does.

"Remus?" Hermione all but squeaks.

Her eyes flicker to Ron who's watching her. And she thinks she really must be hallucinating if Ron doesn't seem alarmed. Neville's absorbed in the game, deciding his next move, probably hoping to not lose yet another game to Ron. And as if everybody can sense her discomfort, the whole household seems to gather around into the lounge. Tonks greets Remus. Harry and Ginny enter, and Hermione looks to see if Harry can see him too.

"Malfoy," he says, and Hermione is almost relieved. He isn't a vision.

But it doesn't add up.

"What is he doing here?" Hermione can finally ask.

Everybody seems to look at each other, as if for help. As if silently deciding which one of them is their turn to tell Hermione what is going on, Hermione who locks herself away inside her room, Hermione who has no idea what is going on anymore.

Finally, Tonks speaks up. "He recently reformed," she whispers into Hermione's ear. "He's going to be staying here for a few days."

And she and Remus leave the room, followed by Harry and Ginny. Ron and Neville turn back to their game. And she's left as the victim of his steely gaze.

"Granger," he says.

And it's like a sword in her heart. His voice cutting the thick atmosphere that doesn't seem to be suffocating anyone else. She can feel her heart, its two-toned drumming, and she thinks she has never felt more alive than now.

–

She goes after Harry. ("Always Harry, always Harry." Don't.)

"Harry! Harry, what is this?"

He pauses at the front of his bedroom, and Hermione can see his tired eyes, just as glassy as his rimmed frames.

"He came to us a few days ago, renouncing his ways. He's just going to be staying here a while. We've got his wand so he can't use it. I'm sorry, 'Mione, we should have told you earlier," Harry says but his voice is hollow, and all Hermione can hear is his tiredness.

He turns his back and enters his room, the door clicking softly in front of her.

"Why are you the only one alarmed?"

Hermione jumps at his voice, quickly turning around to see him standing right there, dressed in all black attire. Pristine, so pristine, she can't help but notice. His voice is like staccato beats, broken almost, Hermione might say. He's stiff, a ghost of his former audacious self.

"I–I don't–" Hermione begins, unsure how to address him.

He seems to be standing so close to her, she can see not a single wrinkle in his immaculate clothes, not a sweep of hair out of place. But at the same time, he looks faraway, and if Hermione were to reach out her arm, she wouldn't be able to touch him. He's a thick smog, smothering her, suffocating her. The hallway seems to narrow down and drag on for miles. It's suddenly claustrophobic.

"They forgot about you," Draco says, realizing.

Hermione breathes heavily, her heart racing, beating in her ears. 'Shut up, shut up,' she wants to say because deep in her mind, the same refrain is repeating. (They forgot. They forgot. How could they forget? Hermione who locks herself away inside her room, Hermione who has no idea what is going on anymore.) She doesn't want to hear it aloud, to have the truth confirmed. ('It's not the truth, it's not the truth!')

'Shut up, shut up, shut up' is threatening to be said. But when she opens her mouth, "Fuck you," is spit out instead, and she can feel her heart, her hammering heart, as she retreats to her room. She has never felt more profane, she has never felt more alive, no, she has never felt better.

–

"I've heard you haven't been kind to our newest resident." George, or Fred, slings an arm around her while she's preparing leftover macaroni and cheese. She cranes her head to see if this twin is missing his left ear or not, but it's covered by a mass of his trademark flaming-red hair, and Hermione can't tell.

"Uh-uh huh, I see what you're doing!" he cries, pulling Hermione closer and she squeals.

"You're growing your hair out on purpose aren't you?"

"Why, yes, I am, is that a crime?" The other twin turns up suavely, leaning against the counter.

"Did you hear–" the one around Hermione speaks to his brother.

"Yes, I did, with my one–"

"Or is it two?"

"Good ears."

"You dropped the f-bomb!" they both say at once, directing it at Hermione.

"What did he ever do to you?"

"He's been nothing but courteous here."

"He was standing innocently by himself in the hallway."

"You should have seen his face!"

They counter the jokes at Hermione and she can't help but giggle, remembering how she swore.

"Well, thanks for the meal!" The one around Hermione releases his hold and grabs her bowl of macaroni, while the other spoons a mouthful.

"Take care!" the other mumbles through macaroni.

She's left having to make another bowl of mac and cheese, thankful the twins can still get up to their usual antics.

–

It's sometime in the middle of the night, when it's pitch-dark, when no one should be awake, that Hermione is. She had slept all afternoon, waking up to an empty stomach now. It's time for dinner. Or is it breakfast? She flickers on the small light at the stove, never opting to filter the whole room with white blindness when she hears a shuffle in the connecting lounge. Hermione startles, flicking her eyes around to see if there's an object she can use as a weapon, when the perpetrator stands up from the couch, towering over her. He reaches behind him, as if grabbing his wand from his pocket, but he draws up empty as he pats himself down. He doesn't have his wand on him, and Hermione thinks she may have the upper-hand.

But then she gets a glimpse of his white-blond hair from the dim kitchen light and realises it's just him.

"Granger," he grunts out.

Hermione can't help but notice that his clothes have pressed wrinkles in them, like he's been in a stationary position for a while, and his hair is ruffed up. He's still in his slacks and button-down top. Draco runs his slender fingers through his hair to comb it into place.

"What are you doing?" Hermione asks, hoping she kept the fright from her voice.

He stiffens and Hermione sees his jaws clench. "I was sleeping." His voice is still staccato beats, and Hermione doesn't know if he'll ever feel comfortable here. She doesn't know if she'll ever be comfortable with him in the safe-house now. Everywhere she turns, he's there.

"On the couch?"

He stiffens more so, if possible. "I–I don't have a room. They're all full."

Hermione hasn't been keeping track of who's staying here or not anymore. But she knows for sure that there's an empty bed in Ron's room, having often snuck in there when he's fast asleep and she needs some company, his snores soothing her until she can go back to her own room. She silently snorts at the idea of Ron and Draco living in the same room together. It's already a shock that they're under the same roof. They wouldn't be caught dead being civilised with each other within a hundred meters at Hogwarts. But this isn't Hogwarts anymore, Hermione suddenly reminds herself. People have changed, she has changed.

"Oh. Well, I was just, just." Hermione waves her hand vaguely, not wanting to tell him her fucked up living schedule, breathing schedule, anything for that matter.

"Where's your wand?"

"What?" she stutters, but she's heard him clearly.

"Your wand."

"Oh, uh, it's in my room." 'Bad, bad move, Hermione! You shouldn't have told him where your wand was.' She scolds herself silently when she realises what she's blurted out, her heart picking up speed, panicking. He could easily overtake her now, push past her, grab her wand, and–

"You should carry it with you. If, you know, if you thought I was, whatever you thought of, it would be easier to–" he trails off, but she understands what he means.

"Yeah," she says, a bit dumb-stricken at his advice.

They stand, Hermione avoiding eye contact at all cost, as he unabashedly stares. She feels naked under his gaze, in her old oversized t-shirt and pajama pants. He's probably never seen someone look so muggle before, Hermione can't help but think. She wishes she had something more conservative on, feeling uneasy at how exposed she feels.

"Well, night," she quickly says, feeling her heat creep up her neck, turning to go back to the comfort of her room.

When she closes the door, she leans against it, only realising then that her stomach's still calling for food. But she can't go back out again. An encounter with him a day is enough to drain her, if she wasn't drained enough as it is already.

Her mind reels on what he's said. Her wand, where's her wand? It seems like she hasn't used her wand for so long now. Since they fell into this quiet slump, she's unwittingly reverted back to her muggle ways, forgetting about her wand, forgetting about magic. Hermione looks for it, patting the top of the mostly empty dresser, scans over her desk littered with books half read. Under her pillow, on the bedside table. Only with an exasperated huff, does she drop to her knees and looks beneath the bed.

And it's there. Alone, abandoned. She reaches under, craning her fingers, until she can feel the buzz of magic, and the smooth yet sturdy wood. Hermione wraps her hand around it, bringing it out. And it's like she's eleven again, buying her first wand. Feeling the magic she had always read about in Disney tales as a child. It's resplendent. And Hermione drops it inside the bedside table, closing the drawer quickly.

It's dangerous as well.

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A/N: This is my first ever fanfiction. I don't own anything. I welcome all reviews, especially those pointing out errors in terms of terminology, as I draw everything I know from the films and other fanfiction I have read. Title is by Angus and Julia Stone, and pretty much all their other songs is this story's soundtrack. And with that, enjoy!


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO.**

"Why does he always wear the same clothes?"

Nobody needs to ask Ron who he's talking about, they've probably all noticed. Usually they mind their own business but sometimes something pops up. There are rarely any judgements anymore, and for that, Hermione is grateful, disliking confrontations more than just about anything. The ones about her, that is.

"Dunno, maybe he's got a lifetime supply of those black shirts and trousers," Seamus Finnegan answers.

"They're probably 50 galleons each," Ron huffs out.

"Have ye seen his shoes? I haven't seen something so clean and new for weeks!"

"Bet those laces are worth ten galleons–" Dean Thomas joins in.

"Each!"

Hermione smiles. After weeks of silence, she's glad to hear the boy's gibes and Ron's frequent scorning over anything good. However, she keeps to herself that Draco even sleeps in those clothes, thinking it too awkward to explain that.

–

The silver chain glints off of Harry's neck, just below his protruding collarbones. The locket at the end of it is tucked within his sweater, but Hermione knows exactly what it looks like, she knows how it feels against the skin of her chest, cold as ice atop of a lake. She remembers how it sometimes seemed to hum, right next to her heart. Like it was yearning for something, something alive, something beating. That instead of being safely encased inside its ribcage, the locket wanted her heart for itself instead. It wanted to cage it inside its enclasped metal instead.

"Hermione."

The necklace shifts, moving against his flesh, not unlike a snake, the 'S' on the locket. Hermione closes her eyes, the thought unpleasant in her mind.

"Yes, yes," she answers Harry, shaking her head, clearing her mind.

"We've got something coming up. It might be nothing. Do you want to come–?"

"Of course. Of course, I do, Harry," Hermione answers.

Harry looks less than convinced, pausing a while to look rather carefully at Hermione. Hermione smiles, motioning for Harry to continue on.

"All right, I'll fill you in then."

But in her efforts to look so sure of herself, Hermione doesn't realise what agreeing will actually entail for her to do. She forgets that she hasn't used her wand for two weeks. She forgets that she hasn't stepped out of the house for longer than an hour a day in two weeks. She hardly remembers what it's like anymore. So when she needs to collect her wand, she stares at her bedside table for longer than usual, as if willing the drawer to open by itself. And when she musters up the willpower to do so, it is with a shaky hand does she tentatively slide the handle of the drawer towards her.

Her wand, vine and dragon heartstring, lies in the midst of papers, exactly how she left it a few days ago. 'It's fine. It's fine, it's fine, it's fine,' chants in her mind as she reaches to pick it up. And when she does, she shoves it in her pocket, not liking how it feels so natural to hold the wooden stick. However, she still feels the hum of its power at the side of her leg, as it presses against her pants, inside its wand holder. (It's fine, it's fine, it's fine.)

She steps outside to where the others are waiting, the cold bitter air clutching onto her quickly. She holds in a harsh gasp, realising she should have put on warmer thermals.

"You good, Hermione?" Harry asks.

"I'm fine. Never better," she answers, hoping Harry didn't catch the chatter in her words.

"You look cold, do you need a jacket?"

"I'm fine, Ronald, honestly!"

"It's not too late to stay–"

"Don't be ridiculous, Harry. Of course, I'm going."

"All right. All right."

After a last concerning look, one by one, they begin to disapparate, but before Harry does, Hermione holds her hand out. Harry looks down at it for a second, and for a split moment, Hermione's heart stutters, in fear of rejection. But she feels his hand clasp around hers not a moment later. He grips firmly, reassuringly. Hermione sees his almost grass-green eyes, so different than the glassy ones she encountered earlier, and she pours her trust into them. They dissipate with a snap.

–

She isn't prepared. From the moment they landed at their destination, Hermione could feel last night's supper threatening to upchuck. It burned the back of her throat, and she had dropped Harry's hand, in favour of the ground as she supported herself. She swallows dryly, her head spinning in all directions as hot tears creep up to her eyes. She closes her eyes tightly, scrunching up her face to stop the banging, banging, banging.

"Hermione! Hermione! Are you all right?"

"I–I can't–" ('breathe!')

"Harry, it's an ambush!" Remus Lupin calls somewhere in the distance, and soon there are snaps and zaps and blinding light as cries emit.

"Hermione, you have to go. You have to go now."

('No, no, no, no, no!') Harry lifts Hermione's palm and presses something against it. Then he lets go, and he's gone as Hermione feels the pull of the portkey. She lands again, opening her eyes to a different location, just making out the familiar surroundings of the lounge.

"Shit." She hears someone mutter under their breath.

Then someone's lifting a cup to her lips, and she drinks reverently, feeling the cool water slide down her aching throat.

"Thanks," she says as she lies there, still curled up in a ball. (Nothing hurts, but everything does.)

"Are you hurt?"

His familiar voice is a shock. Draco's deep drawl holds a hint of concern and if Hermione wasn't curled up on the ground, she might have laughed at the absurdity of that back in their Hogwarts years.

But instead, she says, "No. Nothing hurts."

She doesn't expect anything more. Hermione would be fine left as she is at the moment, waiting for her head to stop spinning. She certainly doesn't expect to feel herself lifted under sturdy arms and carried towards the couch. Draco lays her down slowly, sliding his arms out from under her. Her head lies on a pillow, soft and supportive for her seemingly engorged head. Only then does she realise some tears must have escaped, her cheeks sticky and salty. She brushes her hair away, her thick mane windswept and tangled from the apparition.

He's standing, towering over her when she see's him, like he's wondering what to do next with a girl rolled in a ball on the couch.

"They didn't forget about me," she says, only half aware of herself, and his mercury gaze catches hers.

"What?"

Hermione closes her eyes, for a beat, two, then opens them again, Draco's eyes as intense as before. "They told me about the mission, everything, because they thought I was ready. But I wasn't. They didn't forget about me. Not about you. They were just telling me what they thought I was ready to hear."

"I don't know what you're–"

"I'm sorry for swearing at you."

Draco stares at her, before a twitch at his lips catches her attention. It quirks upwards, just a fraction. And it looks – nice, not at all unpleasant. Without his arrogant stare, and his infuriating smirk, Hermione thinks Draco Malfoy actually looks decent. Who would have thought?

"Decent," she utters, before succumbing to the hammer in her head.

–

The familiar sound of apparition alerts Hermione.

"Harry! Ron!"

"Oomf, 'Mione!" Ron catches her as she lunges at him, her scrawny arms tight around his neck.

"Is anyone–"

"No one's hurt."

"It was quick, just as a warning, I think," Mr Weasley says.

"That's good," Hermione breathes a sigh of relief, as she hugs Harry too.

His glasses knocks askew and Harry rights them as Hermione pulls back a bit.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It's fine. We're fine."

She lets go and Harry gives her a last reassuring smile. When she looks up, she sees him, in all his black glory, Draco's piercing eyes on her. She should be used to his presence by now, after being here a few days already, but she still feels a small shiver run down her spine whenever his cool gaze catches her own. She feels too exposed, wanting to hide from his line of vision, when Hermione realises the irony of things.

Draco had sought to make her life a living hell whilst at Hogwarts. He goaded her and pushed her with his atrocious sneer and cutting words. But she never let him. Hermione remembers how she was always so strong and adamant of herself back at Hogwarts. She remembers how she landed one on him in their third year, his nose crunching under her first in the most satisfying way imaginable. But now, out of Hogwarts, his sneer and arrogance is gone. And with that, is her strong and courageous behaviour. It's aggravating, how she feels about this all. But she can't help it and she doesn't know why.

–

He's looking at her strangely and she doesn't know why.

It's been more than a few days, more than a while and Draco is still living here. Nobody else seems to notice or care. She observed one of what she thought would be the unlikeliest conversation of her life a few days ago when Draco entered the room and noticed Hermione and Neville sitting at the table. Neville had just finished telling her how he had started to grow feelings for Luna and it had been going on for well over a week now. Hermione was shocked to say the least, never foreseeing Neville and Luna, but she was so glad for them.

When Draco entered, Hermione thought it would be a round of tenseness, as he noticed her sitting there awkwardly with a mug of tea halfway to her mouth. She had brought the cup to her lips but in her awareness of his presence, she had choked into the cup when the sweet beverage slipped down the wrong way, and had tea dribble down her chin. Neville was quick to produce a paper towel and mop her up, as her cheeks flared a bright red, rivaling that of a Weasley's head.

After the mishap, Neville had turned his attention to Draco.

"How's it going, mate?" Hermione remembers him asking.

"Can't complain," Draco had answered, and their pleasantries had Hermione observing them extra carefully.

"There's tea in the pot if you want a cup."

Draco had given a curt nod, making himself a cup, and that was the end of that. Neville had addressed him like he was addressing Harry or Ron or one of the other boys here, and Draco had replied like he hadn't been bullying Neville for the past few years of his life. Never in Hermione's wildest dreams would she have thought Neville would get along with him, much less offer him a cup of tea. Neville had excused himself shortly after, and Hermione, not wanting to be alone (with him) had left quickly after.

But in the kitchen, at the dead of night once again, he's sitting at the kitchen table, a mug and plate of biscuits in front of him. And Hermione no longer feels the energy within herself to feel shocked. She had gotten up to get food, having forgone it when everybody else was having dinner the previous evening when she stopped in her tracks, realising the small stove light was on. Had she noticed it earlier, she would have turned around back to her room again and waited for whoever was in the kitchen to finish.

But it's too late now, and her stomach's rumbling to no end, that she can't turn away. She avoids his gaze, not knowing why he's looking so intensely at her. She doesn't think he knows how to look at people without staring. Hermione vaguely remembers muttering something before she had fallen asleep when she had arrived back from the mission a few days ago but she doesn't recall exactly what she said. She thinks she would rather not know to keep her mortification level from shooting through the roof.

"There's food in that cold box thing." His eyes motion the refrigerator.

"It's called a refrigerator. But thanks," she answers politely.

"No, I mean, there is _food_ inside it."

And Hermione lets out a reflexive laugh as she realises what he actually means. Her soft laughter fills the room and she just misses the small smile catch on Draco's lips as she takes out a pot of pasta.

"It keeps food from going off. It's a very, I suppose, muggle convention." She turns on the stove to reheat the pot of leftover dinner.

"You mean, you can re-eat food?"

"You can eat the leftovers, but I don't know if you can re-eat food," Hermione answers, a small smile playing at her lips at Draco's astoundingly limited knowledge of muggles.

Draco chews on a biscuit before speaking. "Leftovers?"

"Oh, right. You probably don't eat leftovers. What do you do with the food left over from meals?"

"I don't know. I guess the house-elves eat it or throw it away or something."

Hermione frowns at the mention of house-elves. She spoons the pasta into a bowl and sits at the table, opposite Draco.

"House-elves shouldn't eat something that would be thrown away," she mutters into her food.

"Ahh, right. Still going on with that spew campaign?"

Hermione looks up, surprised he even knows about her campaign, but his mispronunciation of the cause catches her attention the most. "It's S.P.E.W!"

"Of course. The Society of the Prevention of Elvish Welfare?"

"Promotion! It's promotion!" At his chuckle, Hermione wants nothing more than to give him a good whack at the back of his head as she often did to Harry and Ron.

But she smiles and she feels better, and she offers him some of the leftover pasta, explaining how the stove heats up the food to make it edible again. He offers her a biscuit and puts the kettle on, insisting on making her tea. He had learned how to when Neville showed him a while ago. 'Milk, two sugars', she tells him and when it's ready, she gives him a 6/10 rating. She delights in his refusal to accept her score, claiming he is physically incapable of doing anything less than a 9/10, but she likes how defensive he gets too much to admit her tea really is worth at least a 9/10.

* * *

A/N: Thank you for the reviews, favs, follows! I hope to update once a week.


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE.**

Hermione doesn't want to admit the how pleasant she found the conversation between her and Draco last night. She catches him staring at her when she gets out of her room for a while, and she pretends not to notice, as she has found herself giving him sly glances every once in a while. They don't acknowledge each other as she wraps her arms around Ron and breathes in his familiar musky scent. She sees Draco out of the corner of her eye watching them.

"Oi, what are you staring at?" Ron speaks up, a bit too loudly as usual, and Hermione lets go of him.

"How she seems to be strangling you," his familiar drawl comes. "Considering how," Draco pauses for effect and Hermione braces herself for the insult at Ron that is about to come, and how Ron's temper will surely fly through the roof following it, "her arms are as thin as sticks."

Hermione feels her face heat up as a blush creeps up her neck at his words that are directed at her. What was she thinking? That Draco might have changed and could actually be pleasant from now on? However Draco doesn't spare a glance at her, keeping his eyes on Ron. She prepares to tell Ron that it's all right, there's no need to get riled up, but instead, she hears soft words in her ear.

"Don't listen to him, 'Mione, he's been hanging around pasty faced, noseless beings too long to know what's good."

Ron leans in suddenly and gives her a peck at her lips and she stiffens. He throws a smirk at Draco before sauntering off and before Hermione can reprimand him. She's frozen in place, feeling all her expectations shattered and wondering what just happened. Her eyes turn to Draco as if asking for an explanation, but she knows she won't get it. She feels the need to explain that they're not together but it's Malfoy and he probably doesn't give two shits. Draco sneers at her before turning towards the fridge, muttering, 'stupid cold ice box.'

–

She sees him in the darkened hallway as she's heading back to her room. She's keen on ignoring him but her ears prick up when she hears him talk. It's soft and she doesn't know if it is what he said at all.

"He's in love with you."

"What?" she asks, alarmed.

Draco stops, a door halfway opened at his hand before she realises that it's the room next to hers. The room Neville had been staying in.

"What?" he asks back, as if simply questioning what he's doing wrong.

She shakes her head, thinking it's past her usual bedtime already, though it's barely 8pm, but she's too tired to question him, to confront him. Draco's about to step inside the room when she thinks to ask about Neville.

"Where's Neville?"

"He went to a different safe-house."

"What?" she asks, wondering when this happened, and how it escaped her notice. (She knows how. She won't admit how.) "Why?"

Draco stiffens, probably not used to her onslaught of questions. "Something about that Loony girl moving too."

"Luna moved as well?"

Draco simply stares, his eyes too bright and too intense in the darkness.

"All right, all right," she says absently, as if trying to piece the information in her head together. The click of a door closing sounds and she breathes shallowly, heading back to her own room.

–

Harry goes on more missions. She's no longer invited to meetings, having declined the first few ones following the one she went on a while ago. Harry had nodded understandingly. But now she feels useless, left out, as she no longer knows when meetings are, what they are about, when they even go on missions. Sometimes she sees them come back while she's having a cup of tea, usually with forlorn looks, sometimes with blood smeared on their clothes, hands, face. Hermione doesn't have the guts to ask who it is this time. Instead, they all go to their respective rooms quietly, and her cup of tea goes untouched, cooling down. She always pours it down the drain after.

–

She wants her mom. Her mom who hugged her tight when Hermione told her about the bully, Draco, at school. Her mom who supplied her with tissues after the mess with Ron. Her mom who should be here with her daughter consoling her, instead of being blissfully unaware somewhere in the eternal sun realm of Australia. Hermione sees Mrs Weasley with Ginny, and before they can see her, she bolts it back to her own room, foregoing dinner again. She can't help but feel a smidgeon of jealousy.

But no sooner is she in her room, does she hear a knock. She has half a mind to tell whoever it is to go away, but stays quiet in hopes that they think she is sleeping. However, the door opens and feeling her heart begin racing, Hermione closes her eyes tight, whilst lying as still as she can on the bed. But when she hears her name being called in his familiar reassuring voice, her eyes flicker open, and there's Harry, beautiful beautiful Harry.

"Harry," she whispers, a croak in her throat.

Hermione sits up and shuffles to give him room to sit next to her. They sit in silence for a while as she leans her head against his shoulder and he rubs her back soothingly.

"I know," he whispers. "I know."

"When does it end, Harry?"

"Soon. I promise."

If he feels his shirt dampening, he doesn't acknowledge it. Hermione sniffles, lifting her head to see Harry's outline lit by the dim hallway light seeping in through the crack in the door. She sees his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, still as round and ugly as ever in the dark. Hermione feels the need to tell him so, and when he chuckles, Hermione feels like for once, just in this moment, she will believe him.

–

When she goes in for her midnight meal, he's there staring at the 'stupid heating food box'. He's pushing buttons and pulling handles and Hermione almost ignores him completely, deciding to let him figure it all out. She doesn't catch it in time when a snicker releases. That's when she senses him glaring at her, and so she sighs and shows him how to work the muggle item.

"You have to push here and then pull the handle. Then you put in how long you want to heat it up for, and press start."

"That's the most complicated thing in all of existence."

Hermione snorts because microwaves are the closest and easiest things to life-savers in the muggle world.

"You're stronger than that."

Her blood runs cold. He's not talking to her, is he? But unless he's talking to his bowl of food, she doesn't know who he is talking to, or even referring to. She wants to ask him, to finally tell him to stop saying these bizarre one-liners to her, when she notices what he's just about to do.

"Wait!" she cries as Draco is about to put his bowl inside the microwave. "You can't put metal spoons or anything metal in it."

He scowls. "How come?"

"Because the heat and metal conducts electrical currents and–"

"It was a rhetorical question, Granger. Surely you don't think I would care to know."

"Well, if you're going to use it, then you might as well know–"

"That was rhetorical too! And it wasn't even a proper question."

Hermione feels her blood rising. "Maybe if you stop saying things that would warrant an answer, you won't get one back!" She feels half smug that she has finally managed to speak a whole sentence without him interrupting.

"Maybe I should just stop saying things to you altogether, seeing as you feel the need to reply to everything I say, even my statements."

"Then maybe you should," she huffs out, having enough of it all. She very nearly throws her hands up in the air in defeat, but instead just stomps out.

"But then they'll be no one else I can talk to with at least half a brain." Hermione hears scoffed out as she leaves, but once she registers that he's just given her half a compliment, she's already out of the room. She didn't even get to reprimand him about his one-liners either. And it is another whole minute later that she realises it feels like she's back at her Hogwarts years, quarrelling about the most insignificant of things with him. And maybe, she can get used to it.

–

His last weird sentence rings in her mind and she wants to forget it, disregard it as white noise. Because admitting anything Draco says as truth almost makes her physically want to spew. She knows. She knows how strong she is. The girl who got all Outstanding marks, except for Defence against the Dark Arts (which she is still disappointed about), the girl named the brightest witch of her age, the girl who neglected to attend seventh year in order to help Harry. She knows.

So it is with her Gryffindor courage does she open her drawer once again to see her wand, still as beautiful as ever, lying innocuously inside. She picks it up and decides she is ready. The magical buzz tingles her bones, and she feels it coursing through her blood, like it is her blood. But it's something otherworldly, inexplicable,

They train, her and Harry, and the first few days ends with frustrated sobs as Hermione realises her techniques have all gone down the drain. But Harry all but forces her to pick up her wand again with each failed attempt, and she does. It's almost too soon when she can recall everything she's learned, plus new tips that Harry has taught her. One day, when Harry smiles, as broad as the earth, she realises that there is only so much that he can teach her. It's all on her now.

–

"Stop," she says as he enters the kitchen, dreading another weird encounter with him.

"What?" he asks with a tinge of annoyance.

"Why do you keep saying–" (The truth, the truth. 'It's not the truth!') "–things that..." she trails off, unable to name the weird things he keeps saying.

He gives her a look as if she belongs at St Mungos.

"You know, you're all civil one minute, and then the next, you're all hostile, and then you say these absolutely bizarre things that aren't true, they aren't true–"

"As usual, I have no idea what you are honestly yapping about."

Her face flushes as she realises this isn't at all how she wanted this conversation to go down. At his patronising look, now she looks like she is the one who is spouting bizarre shit left and right. She had thought up the questions in her head moments before, rehearsing them until she got it all down pat. But the moment he stepped into view, all words seemed to fly out of her brain, and she was left as a blubbering mess.

He approaches her, pouring a cup of tea and she watches him. (No sugar, milk only. How does she know his tea preference already?) Her eyebrows crinkle at his words because surely he does know what she's talking about. He's probably just messing with her, thinking her too insignificant to listen to, to respond to. He looks at her, his light eyes too fucking pretty for such an arrogant man. He doesn't deserve them. Especially not his thick eyelashes that curl up of their own accord. Hermione thinks to how she has to curl hers religiously to get them like his, and in the end, it isn't worth the effort.

"It's rude to stare," he drawls, and Hermione snorts because he surely does it more than her. She thinks it would be impossible to escape a look from him, even through thick vines of overgrowth in the middle of a forest, maybe. He's the champion of staring.

"I'm not," she answers indignantly, knowing full well she is.

His face suddenly seems too close as she cranes up to look at him, realising just how close he actually is. Realising just how tall he is. Taller than Harry, maybe the same height as Ron. She feels his breath as he becomes inexplicably closer and all warning signs in her mind are screaming for her to move. But she doesn't, watching as his eyes lower. Hermione resists the urge to lick her lips, knowing that they are probably dry and cracked. Everything around them becomes hazy and all she sees is Draco. Draco and his eyes that are too good for him. Draco and his angled cheekbones in just the right places. Draco and his lips.

They press against hers softly, then harder, and she feels a hint of his tongue. She melts, part of her mind screaming at her to abort mission! Abort mission! But the other part assists her to lean in as Draco pulls back. She doesn't want him to go.

"What–" she begins.

"The bloody hell is this!?" his too loud voice has her cringing.

Ron stands at the door and Harry pushes him to get in.

"Is this why– I don't believe this!" Ron bellows and Hermione stiffens.

"Please, Ron, this–" (isn't what it looks like?)

"How could you! With him!"

"Ron, come on," Harry tries to reassure him but Ron shakes his hand off of him.

That is when Hermione notices the silver chain around his neck. She walks to him, and grabs the chain, trying to unhook it. "Ron, please, the locket," she sobs.

"At first I thought– with Harry. Always Harry! Do you think I haven't noticed? You and Harry always whispering behind my back. It's never me, is it? Never me. And now with him! Death eater scum!"

"What did you say–" Draco begins but Hermione intercepts.

"Ron, please take it off, you wouldn't be saying all of this if you hadn't been wearing it all day–"

Ron pushes aside Hermione's shaking fingers and with one movement, unhooks the chain and locket from his neck before slinging it on the ground. It makes a loud discordant noise with the floor and Hermione winces. Harry swiftly picks it up to pocket it.

"I'm going, I can't– Harry?" Ron asks, his blue eyes burning with a fire.

"Come on, mate."

And with a last withering glare, Ron disapparates in front of her. She lets out a sob and a harsh gasp before turning to Harry. Please. Please, she wants to say.

"I'm sorry, 'Mione," he whispers sadly, before disapparating himself.

* * *

A/N: The characters personalities are a mess. Draco and Hermione aren't supposed to be so open towards each other so fast but I don't know what to do without throwing in mindless fillers. Apart from that, I was honestly aiming to write a little bit each day, but instead, what I do is write half a chapter one day, wait a week, then finish it. (And by that time, I've forgotten everything I've written, so any discrepancies is due to that.) But anyway, I hope you enjoy. Comments make my heart spin.


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